Page 6 of Owned By the Russian

“You’re so full of yourself; it’s a miracle you stand upright,” she said once she had filled up her plate.

“And you’re so arrogant, it’s almost endearing.”

She scoffed, her lips pressing together into that tight little frown. “I know what this is.”

“Humor me.”

“I think it seriously bothers you that I don’t throw myself at you like every other single woman in this room wants to,” she accused, taking a step closer to him. “You find it hard to believe that I don’t want to suck your dick. So, naturally, you try to make my life a living hell, and yet again, you don’t even succeed at that. It’s a dick move if you ask me, but what else can I expect from a man like you?”

He was amused, alright. “A man like me?”

She leaned in, her voice lowering. “An arrogant asshole who thinks the rest of the world has to suck up to him because he’s big and strong. But guess what? You don’t fool me, Ilya. You’re just like every other man out there. You only think with your dick, and it’s sickening.”

Something in Ilya’s chest tightened at the proximity between them. He could smell her flowery perfume and her familiar coconut shampoo.

He chuckled lightly, surprising her. “And you claim I’m the one who’s full of myself.”

Her brows pinched. “Excuse me?”

“How high do you carry yourself to think that the only thing I want to do is fuck you? I’m nothing like the men you compare me to, Valentina. I’m much more, and you know that. In fact, we both know you’d beg me to fuck you.”

She stiffened at the sound of her name from his mouth.

“I was right,” he added with a smirk. “Your arrogance truly is endearing.”

Irritation rolled off her in waves. “You really think you can get under my skin, don’t you?”

“Clearly, I’m doing something right,” he responded, leaning in just a fraction, savoring the way her breathing hitched.

He relished the way her composure cracked, just enough for him to see the spark of frustration in her eyes. She was trying to maintain control, but he could see it—he was getting to her.

“Arrogance suits you,” she muttered, turning her back on him in an exaggerated show of disinterest, though he knew better.

“I’m sure you’ll learn to love it,” he teased, his voice carrying a smugness he fully knew she hated.

Valentina paused, as if deciding whether to throw a sharp retort or just walk away. But there was something about the tension between them, something that kept them wanting more.

Maybe it was the way they both knew exactly how to unravel each other, or maybe it was the fact that beneath the insults and the constant clashes, there was an undeniable pull between them—something neither of them could resist.

Her lips curled into that disdainful little frown he secretly loved. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re so predictable, it’s cute.”

She bit her bottom lip hard to keep from snapping, but he could see the fight in her, the way she hated being so close to giving in.

Finally, she smiled sweetly. “You know what? I won’t let you succeed. I won’t let you ruin my night. Come close to me again, and I might just leave a bullet in your head.”

Then she walked away briskly, like there were hot coals under her feet. As much as he enjoyed pushing her buttons, just as much as she enjoyed pushing his, neither of them truly walked away unscathed.

In a strange, twisted way, it was the only thing that made sense between them.

Chapter 3 - Valentina

The dining room in Valentina’s home was grand yet dimly lit to complement a late dinner. The faint glow of a crystal chandelier cast a warm golden hue over the long oak table that was adorned with fine linen, an assortment of silverware, and a spread of steaming Italian dishes.

Lasagna bubbled in Valentina’s dish, fresh-baked bread, olive oil gleaming in small bowls, and vibrant salads tossed with balsamic vinegar.

At the head of the table, her father —Lorenzo Romano—a commanding yet weary figure with slicked back graying hair, sat, his sharp features softening only slightly by age.

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